Chapter Twenty-one: Something to Do

Later that afternoon, slow drumming announced the onset of Bodisar's burial rites. The eerie keening of women rode the wind. Unlike Ivergan, Bodisar was sincerely mourned by some, perhaps less so by others. Whether Ambelda mourned the death of her true-mate more than the death of their dream of empire was debatable. Brinavisti's tart comments on that subject showed that her sense of humor was also a sister of Lovaduc's.

Radovin listened to the woman-talk from a comfortable background position. He had found an unclaimed task, cutting thongs from hide remnants with a knife that was merely a small flake of flint with one edge dulled for safe handling. It cut through the hide with little effort. He worked without haste, first going once around the piece to make a smooth curve all the way, then removing a precise, continuous strip. The repetitive work gave him a calm feeling of inclusion in the band.

Ottavar came home to get essential ritual items, and he asked his new apprentice to paint the customary sacred symbols on his face and body.

Radovin worked silently until a question that would not leave his mind in peace found its way to his tongue. "Um, Ottavar...is it all right if I um...." He paused to finish one black spiral of a continuous band. With his painty finger safely off Ottavar's skin, he let the words pop out. "Go with girls."

Ottavar turned toward him, his mask of fresh red and black paint distorted by a smile. "Yes, Rado. Of course. Absolutely. Listen, if you're nervous about it...."

Radovin looked at the paint dish he held and waggled his free hand. "I, um, talked to Davo."

"Good. He said you took a walk with him." Ottavar was silent for a moment, regarding him thoughtfully. "Tomorrow I asked to have the sweat lodge for a while, for you to have a cleansing. You'll want to be ready for that, get something to cast the impurity into. Any small object--well, you know, ah?"

"Ahm, yeah." Radovin frowned. "You'll be doing it?"

"I asked Tayrolin to help, and some of the novices. You are Dedicated, Rado, initiated or not. I want to make it plain to everyone that you're one of us, and somebody worth knowing. But this will be a small group, and Tayro knows where you're coming from."

Radovin ducked his head. "All right."

"I know meeting people is awkward for you. But these are a good bunch of fellows. You'll see. You'll feel better about everything after. Then, well, I suppose Mama and Sumi will have everything else figured out." Radovin's face heated up and Ottavar chuckled, a grin warping his painted cheeks. "I don't think you'll have any problems with that either." He pulled his face straight and asked if the painting was done.

"I gotta finish you in front. Connect it all up." Radovin traced a wavy line in the air.

"Oh." Ottavar looked down at himself and laughed. "Yes, and try not to tickle below the ribs, ah?"

"Hold real still...." Radovin's paint-daubed finger headed slowly and deliberately toward Ottavar's ticklish zone. Ottavar's eyes rolled that way and he stopped breathing.

Lovaduc settled onto a cushion with a sigh, holding a bowl of all-day soup proportional to his size. "I hope we're done with burials for a while." He tasted the soup, eyes half closed. "Mmm." After a few more spoonfuls, he addressed the assemled band.

"As for the rest of it, in case anyone wants to know...." He shook his spoon at the antiphon of groans. "What is left of the council has declared a kinship obligation over all, at least until the Bull band gets its shit together and elects a new headman. We're chipping in a few hides for now and some jerky and tallow. Food shouldn't be a problem if the hunt for the Feast goes well. All that is still on, at least. Let's hope nothing falls out of the sky in the next few days." He shook his head and attacked his soup.

Blood contamination had cost the Bull band their largest tent and nearly everything in it. Thanks to Ambelda's insistence on centralized storage and distribution of surplus, that had included most of the band's stored food as well as the bedding and clothes of the tent's inhabitants. All bands might be short on reserves for a while, but no one would go hungry now that they were bound by the decree of kinship to share. Anyone who hoarded food risked the wrath of the spirits as well as the disapproval of men.

On the other side of the unlit hearth, women swarmed around the Bull band's former kick-toy, trying to fatten him up. Radovin patted his stomach and made smiling gestures of refusal. Lovaduc smiled and tipped his bowl to sip the last broth. The little scut had certainly earned some extra feeding, he'd got things going like a torch in dry grass.

"Ottavar is going to be exhausted," Sherilana said, handing an empty bowl to Tevina. "I know I am, and I got more sleep than he did last night."

Tevina straightened up, the dirty-dish basket held against her left hip, and scanned the tent. It was getting dark inside, despite the open flaps. "He'll be back soon, ah?"

"Yeah." Lovaduc looked up, grinning. "I told him to get his ass back here or I'd send his Mama to get him. You would, too," he added with a wag of his spoon when Tevina laughed.

"See, Rado, nobody gets any respect around here," Jesumi said. "Let me take that, Mama. Sit down. How much soup is left?"

Brinavisti, guardian of the soup, stood in the entry, cutting off half of the last light from a rapidly darkening sky. "Enough if Lovo doesn't want seconds and thirds. Ah, it's dark in here. Need some lamps lit."

"I'll get--" Radovin lunged upward.

"Nah, Rado, settle down." Tevina restrained him with a hand on his shoulder and sat down next to him. She let her daughter take the basket.

"If you need to keep your hands busy, you could drum us up a song or two," Bazenaber said. A chorus of "Ayah!" greeted his suggestion, with smiles brightened in the light of a torch that one of the girls brought in from outside.

"Oh, ah, yeah. Sure." Radovin leaped to his feet, unimpeded this time, and chose a drum while flames blossomed on lamps and kindling.

Smoke rose toward the stars from the smoldering remains of the Bull band's largest tent. Embers still glowed in some outdoor hearths, but more light came from the doorways of tents not yet closed against the chill of night.

Ottavar's feet barely cleared the bumps and tangles of trampled grass. He wanted nothing but to lie down under something warm. The last of his energy had run off in the sweat-bath along with the paint and whatever spiritual impurities might have attached to him during this long day. Hacaben was in no better shape, but he had someone to lean on. Ottavar wasn't sure who. It was too dark to make out faces, and he was too tired to care about anything but the warm beacon of the tent ahead.

The three men slowed and stopped. "Good night, Ott," Hacaben said. "Good wi' y'."

"Ayah. G'night, Hac."

"They're having a good sing," Hacaben's half-seen supporter said.

Ottavar only then became aware of the rhythmic sing-song chant that poured out to welcome him. It was full of spirit, joyful, and in perfect unison, led by a confident drumbeat. "Ah! They are," he said. A good chunk of extra weight dropped off his shoulders. Radovin was settling in very well.

"Yeah, I am definitely going to get my own apprentice," Hacaben said.

"You do that. I'll see you tomorrow, ah?"

"But not early."

Ottavar laughed. "Don't worry. I'm going to sleep until midday. Get on home, Hac. G'night. Good be with you."

They embraced briefly. Ottavar aimed his weary legs at the glowing entrance of his home while the other two shadows moved off toward the next source of light. The song ended in laughter and a scattering of talk. He stood, blinking, in the doorway. Jesumi spotted him first.

"Uh! Yeah, don't knock me over, ah?" Ottavar hung onto his enthusiastically hugging sister to keep his balance.

"Oh, you're cold! Get in here and--why didn't you send somebody for a wrap?"

Ottavar didn't try to answer that question or any others as he was ushered to the hearth and swaddled to the ears in warm furs. He sighed and closed his eyes, letting the heat of the fire soak into his feet. When he lifted his lids, Radovin was hunkered near him, with Tevina close beside holding a bowl.

"What?" he said, to both at once.

"Soup. You should eat, ah?" Tevina held the bowl a little closer.

"Yes, Mama." He shrugged his arms free of half the band's bed-furs and took the soup bowl. Vahé, he was hungry, tired or not. The thickened broth was just right, comfortably warm. He took in a few spoonfuls, then glanced up to see Radovin's solemn gaze still fixed on him. "I'm all right, Rado, just tired. So are you. Warm up the bed, ah?"

Radovin nodded, smiling. He rose and shuffled away. Tevina took a seat at Ottavar's side, ready to offer another serving. Ah, the comforts of home.

Ottavar awoke, halfway rested but thankful that morning had not yet come. Close beside him, Radovin was obviously in the throes of a dream, his breathing irregular.

Was he seeing Kayotar again? Communing with Raven? The elder spirit taught him in dreams, he had said, fearfully offering that wonderful fact as if it were something he might be punished for. As if! Or was he merely reliving moments of his past? Enough in that to cause a dreamer to twitch and whimper.

Radovin had been lucky to get away alive; Ottavar was certain of that now. His spirit shrank from a doubly horrifying thought. With the aid of Ivergan's sorcery, augmented by stolen power, Bodisar might have succeeded in his bid for rule. Bogu vahé! A bully who desired to lord it over his fellow men was not fit to make decisions that would affect their lives. Thank the Good Ones it was over.

Radovin's breathing slowed, his slumber deepened. Rain began to patter on the tent. Ottavar sent a silent prayer of gratitude to the good spirits, and sank back into his own peaceful dreams.

Out of a confusion of vague scenes one gradually grew clear. Radovin stood before the Mammoth Gate. A gap between two jutting walls of stone led into a narrow vale that branched off to the west from Spirit Valley. Behind him rose high, pale cliffs, their weathered tops divided into grotesque forms, upthrust hands of a buried giant.

Radovin had been to this strange and wonderful place more than once as a child, when his mother came to gather special herbs. More recently, he had come near enough to hear the voices of spirits moaning in the fissured cliffs.

Something was drawing him into the side valley. He stepped slowly forward. A woman stood there ahead of him.

Solera seemed younger than his last memory of her, care and sorrow gone from her sweet, loving face as if her eyes had never beheld a lodge abandoned in flames with the rotting dead heaped inside. Her smile threatened to pull his heart out of his chest. All of the things he had and hadn't done in the years that lay between leaped up to confront him.

His arms weren't long enough to reach her, or she was farther away than she seemed. Tears blurred his vision. "I'm sorry, Mama. I couldn't get to Kayotar, I got stuck where I was, and they killed him. I didn't know. I'm sorry." He didn't know how he could have prevented Kayotar's death, but it seemed to be his fault now. Everything was.

She drifted away from him, fading into the underbrush. Radovin followed, fighting the thick branches. Thorns tore at him, rough limbs tried to hold him back or struck him. It was hard to see in the darkness beneath thick foliage, as if he were in a cave.

"Mama, where are you? I'm sorry--they made me leave you, they wouldn't let me stay and help you."

He was in a cave, his voice overpowered by the pervasive wails of lost spirits. Echoes mocked: "I'm sorry...sorry...." There was no air here in the dark Underworld; the dead do not breathe.

Dim light grew in front of him. He pushed desperately toward it. A silhouetted figure turned toward him, its eyes deep in shadow.

"You think you are somebody now, ah?"

Ivergan's voice. No! He recoiled, backed into solid stone; trapped, still tied to his past, tormented by what he could have, should have done.

His mother's face rematerialized, wavered and blurred. It was not her, and then it was again, but she looked like his grandmother, and Tevina too. Then it was truly his mother, close enough to touch.

"Rado, my child." She reached for him.

"Mama?" He reached out too, and felt her warm arms envelop him. "Mama, I'm sorry," he said again, his voice muffled against soft flesh.

"It's all right, my son. You did no wrong. Trust yourself."

The voice had changed again. He lifted his head to see the face of an old, old woman, weathered skin folded in creases like dry streambeds. Her eyes were deep wells of starlit night. She smiled and touched his face. The skin beneath her fingertips tingled strangely. "Follow me," she said, and vanished in a rumble of distant thunder.